


Spiral

by aseriesofessays



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Depression, Insanity, Insomnia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, implied e/r, vague e/r
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 18:05:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6434791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aseriesofessays/pseuds/aseriesofessays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You paint and you paint and you break.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spiral

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't slept in quite some time, it's 4 in the morning, i don't know what this is

Your art is knife slashes in blood red paint and blue eyes that burn and golden wings that spread and splatter across your canvas and floor. Your art is insanity and madness and a breaking mind but you smile with jagged glass teeth and pull your brush down and _twist_.

You spend days and days mixing the color of his eyes and the color of his hair but his jacket stumps you for a week, a month, it's ripping at you and _tearing_ at you and-

You get it, one day. It's the color of blood. It's the color of _revolution_. It's dark and rich and heady and iron and you splash it onto your walls because you don't care anymore.

Something's wrong with you, something's making your head turn to cotton and your heart jackhammer in your chest and your hands shake like they're caught in an earthquake and you don't care because it burns and it hurts and it's _free_.

"R," they say, tug at your wrist or your shirt, "R, you have to sleep. R, you need to eat. R, please, R, for me, R, you're scaring me-"

Jehan, big eyes and sunflower sweater, makes you hot tea and coaxes you away and whispers soft chatter until your stomach stops flipping and your lungs stop spasming and your brain quiets down to a dull murmur and you can sleep for the first time in maybe too long. Courfeyrac smiles and jokes and when that doesn't work he pries the paintbrush from your claw-hand and the clothes from your cramping back and he wrestles you into bed and hums. Courfeyrac's not a singer, not that you can remember, but his voice is rich and smooth and you falls asleep to chocolate syrup.

Combeferre reads to you, Eponine yells at you until you snap and sobs, Bahorel talks and talks and talks until you feels jerky and out of place in your own home. Joly doesn't come to see you because every time he does he talks about depression and insomnia and hallucinations and dementia and he cries and you stares at him without quite seeing him because you've not slept in three days, four days, just-

You don't know. Everything's fuzzy. Everything's gone dull.

You drink your meals and you pour coffee on your lap because your hand is shaking too badly to keep the pot up and you're spiraling down, down, _down_ , something's wrong with you.

You know that. Some part of you knows that.

You don't care.

Enjolras comes and holds you and you're burning and freezing and breaking and mending all at once. He looks at your paintings, eyes wide at the madness that's so obviously there even if it's not stated right out- "Here, Enjolras, it's a picture of you stepping on my throat. Here is a picture of you covered in blood and fury and power. Here is you with wings that scorch a countryside. Here is _you_ , _here_ is you, _here_ is _you_ -"

No.

It doesn't matter, anyway. You'll be fine. And if you're not...

Who cares?

Not you.

**Author's Note:**

> i didn't edit because i'm exhausted and i wrote this in five minutes still because i'm exhausted. sorry
> 
> you can find me at lesgrandtears.tumblr.com if you care about that


End file.
